A ridge overlooking Elephant Butte Lake. A pocket full of smooth river stones. The question that changes everything: what if most of what I believe can't earn its place?
The thing about being alone with your thoughts in the wilderness is that eventually, you have to listen to them.
I'm sitting on a ridge overlooking Elephant Butte Lake, watching the sun paint impossible colors across New Mexico's high desert, and my mind is doing that thing again — bouncing between ideas like a pinball machine operated by a hyperactive child. The same restless curiosity that made me an utterly average student is now making me question everything I thought I knew about power, authority, and how the world actually works.
Most people would call this beautiful. I call it my outdoor office.
And it really is an office. The red camp chair beside me has been my thinking throne for hundreds of nights like this one, positioned perfectly to watch the lake's surface mirror the sky while I test gear, refine product concepts, and wrestle with questions that started about outdoor equipment and somehow evolved into questions about everything else.
I reach into my jacket pocket and feel the familiar weight of small stones I collected on the hike up — smooth river rocks worn down by countless years of water and weather. Each one different in size, color, texture. I pull one out and roll it between my fingers, thinking about how beliefs are like these pebbles. We carry them around without really examining them, collecting them from parents, teachers, culture, religion, politics. Most people's pockets are so full of inherited beliefs they can barely move.
The thought stops me cold. What if I emptied my pockets? What if I took out every belief, every assumption, every inherited piece of "wisdom" and actually examined it? Not just intellectually, but with the kind of rigorous honesty that most people reserve for their tax returns?
It's a terrifying thought. And an exhilarating one.
I think about F. Scott Fitzgerald's observation about intelligence being the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind simultaneously while retaining the ability to function. Maybe that's what I've been doing my whole life without realizing it — believing things while simultaneously questioning them, holding onto inherited wisdom while wondering if it's actually wise.
Tomorrow, the real work begins. But tonight, for the first time in years, I sleep the deep sleep of someone who's finally asked the right question, even if they don't yet know the answer.
These questions are designed to work on two levels — some can be answered from this chapter alone, others reward having read what came before or anticipate what's ahead. The deeper you go, the richer they become.
Ask anything about this chapter — the ideas, the writing, the questions it raises. This companion has read the full book and can connect Chapter 1 to everything that follows.